Homicides and handcuffs
by LostinFairyTales
Summary: Written in response to the Shadowy Detective! Childermass/Serial Killer! AU Lascelles prompt on the JS&MN kink meme. AU but set during 19th century. Rating T but may to change to M.
1. Chapter 1

**'Terror on the streets! Serial killer's latest victim discovered!'**

 **That is what they call me now-a serial killer, mused Lascelles with a scoff at The Times' melodramatic front page. He slowly raised the bone china teacup to his lips, and continued to read through the article.**

 **A smile spread across his lips at The Time's somewhat bland description of his 'victim', reported as being 'stabbed to death'. No mention of the mutilations that he had so artfully crafted, the drag of silver against flesh, blood as dark as sin that dribbled onto the cobbles...**

 **His breath had caught in his chest at the recollection, his own blood ringing in his ears. The craving was palpable, and when he glanced down at the tightly clutched butter knife in his hand, Lascelles saw only a bloodied tip. But he couldn't think of such things; not over breakfast.**

 **In an attempt to distract himself, he took a bite of croissant, leaning back in his chair to observe out of window. Dense rain sombrely descended, though London was still much alive. Top hats and umbrellas were just discernible, illuminated by the glow of gas lamps amidst the fog.**

 **All the minute people, going about their lives, with their insufferable concerns over agreeable marriages, the latest fashions and who was to be hosting the next party.**

 **It was all so dull.**

 **No wonder they got so swept into a frenzy. If anything, his little...murders** **were providing some excitement to the society of London.**

 **As he pondered, Lascelles found his gaze had been drawn back to the neglected newspaper. He could not resist finishing his dedicated article, but was rather disappointed to find that the latter part was focused upon those bow street runners and their pitiful attempts at locating him. It was blatant that they knew little of the killer, deciding that after a third homicide some detective was required.**

 **Expecting this to be of little concern, Lascelles frowned at a sense of recognition of the detective's name; he could not recall where he had heard it. Finishing the croissant, Lascelles brushed the fine flakes from his fingers and rose from his seat. Still the insistent tug of John Childermass toyed in his thoughts.**

 **It was only once he left the parlour room that the memory surfaced: he'd been at a soirée, Mrs Godestone's perhaps. Someone, a bow street runner themselves, he believed, had been discussing private detectives. The policeman had mentioned John Childermass, this fellow Yorkshireman who was infamous for solving a locked room case, amongst others. Quite the reputable detective.**

 **Clambering the staircase, Lascelles felt that craving creep over him again. Yet it was inexplicably distorted into a piqued interest of this detective. Not that Lascelles was by any means unnerved, for the most glorious aspect of it all was how untraceable a killer he was.**

 **After all, who could suspect that** **a gentlemen such as Lascelles to commit such acts?**


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Childermass/Serial Killer Lascelles.

Drumming a finger against the oak desk, Childermass scanned over the map of London. Three ink notations were scattered across it, as undefined as the rest of the case. Around the map were all the case notes that he had been provided with. Yet for all the statements and notes on the victims, there were no leads upon the killer. Childermass knew that he was missing something, something that he could feel at the very back of his mind, just out of grasp. As the detective resigned himself to read over all of the case notes for the fourth time that morning, there was a sharp knock at the door.

"Come in," Childermass called, without looking up. From his peripheral vision he saw the door swing open, a scurry of footsteps announcing the arrival of sergeant Norrell.

"I've finished collecting the names of everyone in attendance of the soirée at Manchester Square last night, Detective, and the statements from those who saw the victim before his death."

In his rapid paces, the sergeant approached the desk, carefully setting down several sheets filled with precise notes.

With one motion, Childermass gathered the statements. Beneath the ragged hair, his eyes flickered across each line.

"What of the body?" He enquired, lifting his head to address the sergeant as he abruptly abandoned the statements.

Sergeant Norrell had removed his cap upon entering the building, and Childermass noted the trickle of perspiration that lined the policeman's forehead. "Well detective, it is just as the others were: the victim was stabbed to death, with several incisions upon the face to make them almost unrecognisable."

"Did the autopsy reveal anything of the weapon?" He said, tracing a finger along his temple before reaching into the bottom left drawer and taking out the pipe.

"From the width and depth of the mutiliations, of this body and the previous ones, we believe that a very narrow knife was used; the sort you'd use to peel an orange with perhaps," Norrell wrinkled his nose, from the tobacco or murders, Childermass was uncertain.

He scrawled these details onto the back of one of the statements before rifling through the papers. Producing another two sheets, Childermass traced a finger along the map.

"What is it Detective?"

"What sort of criminal uses an orange knife?" Scoffed Childermass, his tone low and rapid, "If all three homicides are by one person, then you bow street runners have wasted your time searching for every known criminal."

Norrell murmured something about preferring the detective not to refer to the unofficial police force as such, though Childermass ignored him.

Rising from his slumped position, he began to pace the room, blowing clouds of tobacco. "Two men in the wrong place at the wrong time, and killed in such respectable areas of London. It is too strong a coincidence. No, this is a serial killer who is also quite the gentleman. How else could they have got into last night's soirée?"

He suddenly halted, deep in thought, his dark eyes fixated upon the wall. I need collect you to go back to Locks and get a list of all of their customers from the last three months or so-and a list of all those in attendance of the party on Manchester street."

Norrell gave a small nod and headed towards the doorway.

"Oh, and sergeant, I believe that Sir Walter Pole said he owes you for solving the poisoning of his wife? Could that favour be returned in the form of a party?"

"I do not care much for parties..." The sergeant said, his bemused expression clearing, "Ah, you mean to see if anyone is on both lists and then invite all the potential suspects. Of course I shall ask, under the pretext of you wishing to be introduced to the society of London?"

"Yes, that should work very well to our favour."

If there was one thing that Detective Childermass loathed more than homicidal maniacs, it was being in a crowded, stuffy room with several potential homicidal maniacs amongst the highest of London's society. Still, it was all part of the case, and the safety of London's people depended upon it.

With that in mind, Childermass resisted the urge to run a finger between his neck and the discomforting starched collar of the freshly pressed shirt that he wore. Instead, he nodded along to whatever the fawning women around him were saying, focused upon the entrance to the hall. Two men had arrived; a snobbish pair. The smaller one wore a hat that was most definitely one of the recently deceased milliner's.

"You must excuse me," He murmured, and the ladies courteously parted.

Getting through the clusters of people was no easy feat, particularly as every so often he would be recognised and someone would wish to make his acquaintance. Brushing them off as politely as he could, Childermass scanned through the crowds, his gaze never losing the pair.

Eventually he caught up with them by the staircase, where both were taking drinks from a serving girl. As he neared, Childermass outstretched an arm and took a glass from the silver platter. In an instant eyes fell upon him.

"Oh detective!" An ostentatious voice drawled, "It is so good to see you. I have heard so much about you- you are most talked of in these social circles, more so than tonight's host, Sir Walter Pole, I daresay! That case in Scarborough was solved excellently detective-if ever I knew of a crime then you would be the first person I'd ask to solve it, not those bow street runners."

Such high flattery was never taken well by Childermass, as he saw through it immediately. But he resisted making a snide remark, keeping his manner to the utmost civility. "I only work with the police force. But might I enquire as to your names sirs?"

"Where are my manners?" The smaller man exclaimed, giving a brief bow, "I am Drawlight, and this is Mr Lascelles."

The other man merely gave the slightest inclination of his head at the detective before coolly saying, "I suppose you are glad for a night off from that dreadful new case of yours?"

"I shall only be glad when the killer is apprehended-Mr Lascelles."

"How vile those murders are," Drawlight continued, "You know, both Mr Lascelles and I brought hats from that milliner; a fine man he was too. It's simply grotesque, those murders. I can hardly bear to think of the matter-"

The man's voice washed over Childermass, who had taken to regarding Mr Lascelles from the corner of his eye. Despite keeping up the expression of disinterest, the detective had noted the minute quirk of Lascelles's features at the mention of the dead milliner. Childermass was certain that the man's lips twitched at the very edges, the haughty expression taking on a rather macabre twist. Perhaps it was simply the glimmer of the chandeliers that swung overhead reflecting onto Lascelles's face.

"Quite so-such thoughts are rather disturbing," Lascelles said, his voice airy, but there was an eerie sense of detachment to his words.

Childermass was thinking too much of it, instead attempting to turn his attention back to the other fellow. Still babbling away: Drawlight was most certainly not the murderer he sought. But there something about Lascelles that the detective could not determine, and that in itself was reason enough to suspect him. He made a mental note to observe the man closely during the evening.

He grew aware then that the footsteps upon the staircase grew louder, and that the raucous chatter around them seemed to be quietening.

Sir Walter Pole and his wife were descending the stairs. Once they reached the floor, both greeted the detective, enquiring into how the case was going and marvelling at his other cases respectively. All the while, Drawlight interjected in hopes of capturing the esteemed hosts' attentions. Lascelles, on the other hand, remained silent, and slipped away after a moment, believing himself to be unnoticed.

Conversing with Lady Pole, Childermass watched the man disappear into the throng of the party. The gut instinct only deepened, but he was hardly in a position to leave. Fortunately, the arrival of the hosts had sparked the band to begin a waltz, and Lady Pole was eager to join in. As the drunken people stumbled together to find a partner, the detective tailed the retreating figure of Lascelles.

Passing the footmen by the entrance, he caught hold of the wide doors just as they were to close again, before venturing out into the night. The exchange from the stuffiness of the house to the cool evening air was welcomed, though Childermass barely had chance to register the change, or the rain that lashed down, his footsteps already pounding down the stone steps and onto the street. The detective kept within a reasonable distance behind Lascelles, so as not to cause suspicion, but close enough to monitor his movements. Where the other man occasionally landed a polished shoe in a puddle, Childermass moved with the stealth of the shadows that he walked in.

Lascelles proceeded to cross the road, but as Childermass made to follow, a horse and carriage swept by, obscuring his view of the other side of street. He swore once it passed, for Lascelles had vanished. Spotting an alley between two houses, Childermass crossed and headed down it.

The light of the gas-lamps quickly faded until he was fully shrouded in darkness, brick walls looming on both sides. Heavy pellets of rain stung him, almost drowning out the footsteps that he pursued. As he went farther into the alley, Childermass realised that he was unaware if the footsteps were from in front of him or behind. He paused, leaning against the crumbling wall as his fingers slid down his greatcoat to wrap around the holster of his gun.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..." Lascelles's voice floated from somewhere, behind, Childermass suspected. His tone rose and fell in a whimsical manner, just audible over the heavy drizzle, before an afterthought was added in a far more menacing tone, "No need to hide, detective."

He glanced in the direcion of the voice, where what little light could be gleamed from the entrance of the alley was obscured by a tall figure that only partially visible amongst the shadows that fell across much of the passage. Yet Childermass could see Lascelles' breath, slow exhales of misted air that were dragged from the man's lungs as he sauntered forward.

Keeping his fingers taut around the gun, Childermass stepped away from the wall to face him. His senses went beyond gut instinct now- there was something altogether untoward about Lascelles' mannerisms: as though he was taunting the detective with the unhinged fragments beneath a gentleman's mask.

"Trivial things, parties," Lascelles still retained that disinterested air, but repressed menace clutched at the words. "Though I feel both you and I know why we are out here."

"Amelia Abbot, a prostitute on Whitechapel, milliner Samuel Locks

at St. James, and Matthew Watson in Manchester Square. Sound familiar?" Childermass' low voice sounded, cracking the damp air like a rumble of thunder.

"Read about them in the papers," Lascelles replied, still the master of nonchalance.

"Try and convince me of your innocence all you want- I've worked in this business long enough to know a murderer when I see one."

Lascelles took a step forward. His every word was spoken with a soft precision. "You cannot apprehend me based upon your gut instinct. You need a confession correct?"

"Aye."

From behind a veil of dense rain clouds, the moon momentarily appeared. A thin slice of light spilled onto the alley, shining onto Lascelles' face, where an involuntary smirk twisted his respectable features into a look of malevolence. "Well, you'll have to make me confess."

"Very well," Childermass brought up his arm, aiming the gun directly at the other man's chest. He kept it pointing forward as Lascelles stepped back into the darkness, growing closer still. "Your hands are tied detective. Without any proof, you cannot shoot me, else you will be the one arrested, and I shall be dead. No, you won't fire the gun, not if you intend to bring me to justice."

A flash of silver sparked through the darkness before a pounding sensation coursed through Childermass as he slammed into the wall. There was nothing but darkness around him, though he could feel the weight of Lascelles pressed against him, the pointed tip of the knife resting at his cheek. He kept his face still as the silver delicately slid between his cheek and damp hair, conscious that even a flinch could allow the knife to bury itself into his skin.

"Though I simply cannot allow that to happen ," Lascelles continued,"That deductive mind of yours has posed a threat since you took up the case, so I suppose that you must be the next corpse to make headlines..."

Whilst Lascelles had lost himself in his murderous delirium, Childermass slowly extricated his right arm, placing the gun to the wrist had held the knife and raised the cock of the gun with his finger, silencing Lascelles. In that second of hesitation, Childermass deftly knocked the gun into Lascelles wrist so that the knife lurched out of his grasp and clattered to the floor; not without making a thin incision upon Childermass' cheek.

The sudden movement caused Lascelles to involuntarily release his grasp upon the detective, who grabbed his silk covered shoulder and forced the man back as he staggered forward. Keeping hold of his shoulder, Childermass circled Lascelles before roughly pushing him into the wall. With his free hand, he reached for the handcuffs inside his pocket. In an instant the metal slipped around the other man's slender wrists.

"Henry Lascelles, you are hereby apprehended for three murders, confession or no confession."

With that, Childermass slammed the butt of the gun into the back of Lascelles' head.


End file.
